


the right hand of the Daughter

by Wren Truesong (waywren)



Category: Chalion Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Family, Gen, Loyalty, Missing Scene, chosen family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 03:09:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8873473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywren/pseuds/Wren%20Truesong
Summary: Two times Betriz dy Ferrej chose, and changed her life forever.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bigsunglasses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigsunglasses/gifts).



> Many many many thanks are owed to [Ellen Brand](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellen_Brand/pseuds/Ellen_Brand), [joisbishmyoga,](http://archiveofourown.org/users/joisbishmyoga/pseuds/joisbishmyoga) gamlain, and [Ocianne](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ocianne/pseuds/Ocianne)\--who in particular played midwife to this while struggling with her own Yuletide labours! I've lifted text directly from the text where appropriate, most of which is pretty easy to spot.

"Now, Betriz," her father was saying for the umpteenth time, "You need to remember that this is as great a responsibility as it is an opportunity—" but Beatriz paid him little heed, because really, she already knew that.

To tell it straight, Betriz knew it better than anybody in Valenda; or at least she thought so, and she should know. Everyone had only been prating about it for months, from her governess to the Provincara, and everybody in between.

_Royina Ista is returning to Valenda, and bringing the young royse and royesse!_

_Royesse Iselle is only three years younger than you! You’d be a perfect fit for each other as her lady in waiting!_

_This is a grand opportunity, and you mustn't squander it!_

_You're thirteen now! Royesse Iselle will look up to you as a model of deportment for a pious maiden, so hadn't you better—_

— _mind your manners?_

— _neaten your hair?_

— _change into a better dress?_

— _get all that mud off your boots?_

— _get down off that pony and get back to your Darthacan?_

— _stop being Betriz and start being perfect?_

Not that they said that last one aloud, but they _meant_ it.

Oh, how they meant it.

On and on and _on_ , always an excuse to tell Betriz how she'd erred this time, until she half-fancied that this 'Royesse Iselle' wasn't a girl at all, but a moral lesson, and even if she was, certainly not anyone Betriz wanted to make the acquaintance of.

But here she was, with all the bag and baggage and fuss and bother and new servants to fit into the Servant's Hall and new ladies to fit into the castle and _two_ new governesses and an entire new building in the courtyard still only halfway finished, and Betriz was getting one last lecture before she was to meet her.

“—As her lady in waiting, you must guard her honour with your life, and that means that you must hold your _own_ honour above reproach—”

Papa was still talking. He'd already belaboured the advantages; this lecture followed the same pattern as all the others, so now it was time for the _sworn duties_ _of a lady in waiting_. Which was more reasons to be perfect, mostly, though at least _guarding her life_ sounded more interesting than _guarding her honour,_ like being in an adventure story. Ha! If only Valenda, or Baocia, or even Chalion could ever be that interesting. Well, maybe Cardegoss. But Iselle was only the daughter of the old roya, nothing like an heir, and she'd probably be married off somewhere boring but advantageous where they weren't even allowed horses and Betriz would have to go _with_ her and they'd never see _anything._

Betriz turned her thoughts from this vexing prophecy and back to the lecture. If she'd judged this right, _sworn duties_ would be followed by _sacred duties_ and then Papa would run out of words and at least they could finally leave this stuffy sitting room and get _on_ with it.

“—and act as maidens properly beloved of the Daughter—”

Sacred duties, check. Not that Betriz got to do any of the _interesting_ Daughter things—because really, if baby animals were the Daughter's special care, and Betriz as a maiden was meant to ape the Daughter as much as possible, then surely Betriz was perfectly justified in finding and making special pets of every baby animal in the stables, especially the new foals and the tiny chicks and the runty puppy Beetim the huntsman didn't want to keep.

Hm, Betriz should go check on it. The cook's son had promised very faithfully to love it and take care of it, but a good caretaker should always make sure of these things themselves.

And speaking of checking on things, Betriz was _sure_ the queen cat of the stables was about to have her kittens, but of _course_ she'd been called out of the loft and forced to change her dress just as things were about to get interesting—

“Betriz, what did I just say?”

Oh no, she'd let her attention wander too far.

“I'll… have to help the royesse with embroidering offerings for the Temple?” Which did at least sound sort of interesting. Betriz _did_ enjoy embroidery, as long as she got to talk.

Papa's shoulders sagged. “That was two sentences ago.”

“I'm sorry, Papa.” And she was. She always hated making Papa unhappy, it was just—

“I suppose we have been talking your ears off with this lately, haven't we?”

Betriz blinked. Because yes, they _had_ been, she was a little surprised she still _had_ ears, but to hear an adult actually admit to anything of the kind was completely unprecedented.

A warm hand gently passed over her hair, careful not to disturb the braids and flowers Betriz and her maid had so carefully woven into it. Papa's eyes were kind.

“Look at it this way,” he offered. “When you meet her, don't think of oaths or opportunities or duties or anything like that. Just think of another little girl, and the chance to make a friend.”

Betriz bit her lip. Could she really make friends with a moral lesson? But Papa looked so earnest.

“I'll try.”

* * *

She didn't _look_ like a moral lesson.

She looked…

Well, like a little girl. (Betriz was thirteen, and nearly grown; nine-almost-ten was _miles_ behind her. And three whole inches, too.)

A little girl with hair a funny shade of red-gold, like sunset on the castle stones, or maybe like Mama's amber necklace, that was locked away safe for when Betriz was married. Her eyes were gray, and Betriz wasn't quite sure if they were supposed to be that colour, or if they only looked that way over all the lavender of her mourning garments, hers and her mother's and the Royse's.

Why was she in mourning?

...oh, right, her father the old Roya was dead. That was why the Royina had packed up and moved back to Valenda, because she was only the _dowager_ Royina now.

Betriz had known that, but only as facts, and a reason for her life to be invaded.

She hadn't thought of it as a little girl who'd lost her father and then had to move far away.

A moral lesson didn't have a fractious little brother, or a mother who looked tired and sick and … and... Betriz didn't know how Royina Ista looked, but it didn't look good.

A moral lesson couldn't wear _mourning._

“—and this is my daughter Betriz, who might suit your daughter admirably as a lady in waiting—”

“Most delightful,” said the royina, not looking delighted at all. Iselle's lower lip twitched, just a little, and her face set, though her eyes got a little grayer.

...A moral lesson couldn't bite her lip, or try not to show hurt when her mother couldn't spare the energy to care two copper vaidas about her.

_Well._

* * *

 

The good thing about the Royina's exhaustion, of course, was that nobody outranked her—except possibly the Dowager Provincara, and that only because she was her mother and _some_ ranks never changed—and so nobody could ignore compassion or their own good sense for the sake of listening to themselves pontificate.

Pontificate, that was a good word. Betriz would have to rub it in her governess' face… but later. For now, Betriz had a royesse to rescue.

It was actually pretty easy. Which was sort of disappointing in a first rescue, but on the other hand, it _was_ her first, and everybody had to start somewhere. All Betriz had to do was trot along with the Royina's entourage, and as soon as Iselle had been shown her suite at the top of the Short Tower, and the bedchamber she and Betriz would share, Betriz just took her hand.

“Want to look around the castle?”

Iselle blinked at her, and then down at their joined hands, before turning to her minder.

“May I, Nan?”

“I suppose,” said Nan dy Vrit, her mind clearly occupied by the trunk she was unpacking and nowhere near the question of two girls in need of something to do so long as they did it out from underfoot. “Only don't go too far, and don't get your dress dirty, and mind you're back in time to change for supper, you're to dine with your lady grandmother.”

“...not Mother?” Iselle asked in a voice trying so hard not to hope that Betriz' heart hurt.

The busy hands stilled. “...No, Royesse. The royina is … tired, after your journey.”

“Of course,” Iselle murmured, eyes lowering—only to fly open when Betriz squeezed her hand.

“Come on,” Betriz said softly, and in deference to Nan's grateful look, waited until the door had shut behind them before she grinned.

“Say, Iselle—do you like kittens?”

* * *

 

* * *

 

Iselle's bedchamber, again, nearly seven years later, the same round room in the same short tower as it had always been—Teidez's household in the new annex would always be Teidez's, and Iselle's rooms always Iselle's, for all ranks and death and people had changed, for all politics had changed, for all the _world_ had changed.

Valenda never changed. Only people did.

If they were closely guarded whenever they rode out? Well, so. They would not ride out at all. A frail, pious, supposedly-mad young maiden could never _walk_ out of danger, could she? The very idea was absurd.

"You might leave me now," Iselle said to her, as Betriz was fixing the strings of her habit.

"Don't be daft, I'm in the middle of this knot," Betriz said absently, head still full of the plans ( _March dy Palliar will be waiting_ here _so we should take care to wind our passage_ there _to lead watchers astray_ _, is the old cubby by the kitchens still open?_ ), and was stayed by Iselle's hand on hers.

"Don't dissemble, Betriz. You know perfectly well what I mean."

Betriz looked up to protest that _no, actually, I don't, just let me finish and you can try to explain things in actual Ibran_ _—_ and was caught.

Iselle had that _look_ , the brave, stupid, self-sacrificing one. The one that Caz had had when he told her so earnestly that he'd just crawled off all alone to die for them, with only the crows to “ _clear up the mess.”_ It was so strange on Iselle's face that Betriz was struck dumb, giving Iselle plenty of time to open her mouth and let more stupid fall out.

"There's still time, you know. You could stay here in Valenda, safe with your father, and wait it all out. Dy Jironal won't bother to pursue you when he can have me, and if I make this work then you can come back to me if you please _—_ "

Betriz cut off the stream of idiocy with a quick jerk to the habit strings, knocking Iselle's breath out of her—and with any luck, the last of the stupid with it.

" _If_? Of course we're going to make this work," Betriz huffed."And if I left you now it'd be because the Bastard's demons had to haul me off. Assuming your Grandmother left them anything to haul."

Iselle was still staring at her, with that little line between her brows that meant she didn't quite believe what she was hearing or at least didn't quite dare. "Betriz, this is your last chance to step away safely. If you choose me now—"

Betriz kissed her forehead. "Iselle, I _already_ chose you."

* * *

(“ _Cazaril, teach me how to kill a man with a knife.”_ _)_

_Iselle's white face as she lay prostrate before her altar, praying desperately, with no other recourse._

_(“_ _No one will expect it of me…”_ _)_

_Trapped, again, and here was the second rescue, so much harder than the first._

_(_ _“Gods, no, Lady Betriz! Give up this mad plan! They would strike you down— they’d_ hang _you, afterward!”)_

_Dear Lord Caz. So appalled. But then, he understood perfectly._

_(_ _“Provided only I was able to kill Dondo first, I'd go gladly to the gallows. I swore to guard Iselle with my life. Well, so.”_ )

* * *

Beatriz smoothed her thumb across the line between Iselle’s brows until it finally vanished into hope. A much better look by far. "I'll always choose you."

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I swear I don't hate Ista. She's one of my favourite characters, not just in Chalion, but period, and her strength and nobility are AMAZING.
> 
> It's just ... her grief stole her from her daughter, and Betriz is on Iselle's side. Always.


End file.
